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Hilburn
Character Name Hilburn Character Team Affiliation Magic Character Level 3 Alignment Neutral Character Title None Current Location Hephaestus' Forge Spells Wish Items Chain of Ingots Biography Hilburn was born in a small village bordering the mountains of Azinoth, his father, the local blacksmith was a giant of a man, the polar opposite to his petite young wife who did not survive the birth of her only child. Despite his fearsome appearance, his father was a gentle man and loved Hilburn greatly, caring for him well. As he grew, he had a happy childhood, with many friends amongst the other village children. From a young age Hilburn displayed a gift with animals, his father would call him into the forge to help calm a nervous horse in need of shoeing and with a few soft words and gentle touches the horse would go still. All this changed a few weeks after his ninth birthday, the day his eyes turned. His eyes, originally the clearest blue of a summer sky and twinkling with the joy of his soul, opened this fateful day a lustrous golden yellow. His eyes now the eyes of a predator, the eyes of a Magus. The other children avoided him, fearful of the tales their mothers told them, even his father who loved him no less, found that love tempered in wariness. Hilburn, spurned by his peers, set himself to exploring the woods near the town until one day he found a glade. It was perfect in it's seclusion, a small waterfall fed a pool and stream that circled the grassy gap in the trees. Here he came, every day for months to try and use his power, to recreate the feats of the Mages in the stories his father had told him. Winds howling, fire bursting into life, splitting the earth asunder, all of these proved beyond him. Instead he taught himself woodcraft, how to move quietly to move up unnoticed by a deer before it startled, how to recognise the calls of the birds and creatures of the woodland. All the while he reached for his powers and found nothing. One day a cacophony of noise in the forest drew his attention, the panic in the animals cries led him to the edge of the woodlands just north of the village. From his viewpoint he could see the fire raging, consuming, destroying the smithy, his home. He ran, as fast as he was able, pushing through the villagers gathering with water buckets in a futile attempt to quench the blaze. Without thinking he burst into the forge, desperately seeking his father in the smoke and flames. He found him, already dead and burned beyond recognition, a black statue of an almost-man that crumbled into ashes as he reached for it. As he emerged from the inferno, his eyes blinded with tears and soot, the villagers gasped. Although his clothes had been burned away almost entirely, his skin was unblemished. Naturally, they drew the wrong conclusion, Magefire cannot harm the wizard that cast it and so they assumed Hilburn had set this fire and murdered his loving father. Bravely, thirty men of the village forced the grief-stricken boy to the edges of the dutchy and told him to leave, that they would kill him if he tried to return. So he left, a young boy not yet ten years of age, he did not know where he should go so for a time he wandered the forest. It was here he came across Sorn, a new hatched short tailed hawk who had been orphaned for some reason he could not fathom. The chicks plight broke through his own misery and he began to care for it, and himself. Months passed and Sorn grew quick and strong and together they started to travel once more. If any thought to waylay the child wandering the roads alone or cause him mischief, a glance at his luminous golden eyes or his familiar perched on his shoulder soon made them rethink the idea. And so Hilburn wandered for many years, searching for another Mage who could either teach him how to use his power or revoke the cursed colour of his eyes so he could live a normal life. The search was futile, every story of a Mage two towns over proved false. To support himself in this time, Hilburn took up trading. Small, valuable cargoes such as gems, jewelry, herbs and books. It was this that lead to his first breakthrough. One day, crossing the Miraz desert, a sandstorm blew in from the north. Hilburn and Sorn sheltered in the lee of the wind behind the horse under a tarpaulin and waited for the interminable wind to drop. Finally it did, he could tell from the temperature of the sand that night had long since fallen, and he dug himself out. Strangely no sign of the stars or moon was visible for him to orient himself by, but Sorn leaped into the air and flew like an arrow off to the right. Knowing he was going for water, Hilburn followed, as once he was at an oasis he would know where he was once more. But Sorn did not lead him to an oasis, instead after many hours journey on his tired horse he came to a massive gate set in a formidable stone wall that stretched for miles in either direction. He entered to find Sorn drinking from a fountain from which fresh, clean water leapt and Hilburn and the horse quickly joined the bird. Their thirst quenched, the exhausted travellers slept. Morning brought fresh woes as all around them in the streets lay the dead. Skeletons with withered flesh and rags of fine clothing in every direction. More curious than afraid, Hilburn set out to explore the ancient necropolis, though he was careful not to disturb the rest of the dead. Eventually he reached what was clearly a palace, a residence once worthy of kings, it's faded majesty still evident and strong. Creeping through the abandoned halls he came at last to the kings room. At a desk sat a corpse dressed in finer clothes than the rest, a golden circlet on his brow, a dry and brittle quill in his hand. The dessicated parchment he was writing on showed a strange cuniform script he had never encountered before and was unable to read, except one word, the last. Even as he looked at it the word became familiar, though the parchment remained the same he somehow knew how to say it, and say it he did. From the corners of the room a windless breeze stirred the dust and sand, and the colours bled from reality as the shadows coalesced and imploded into something like a human. What is your desire Magesmith? asked the being, breaking the stunned Hilburn's frozen stance. He asked what manner of creature he is, A genie, the booming response came. He asked what that word was, Magesmith. The genie hesitated before responding. Magesmiths are the artisans of magic, they have the ability to temper magic in it's raw, purest nature and form from it anything concievable. I cannot tell you any more, the information I should have is.. missing. A Magesmith, this was incredible news, he had power, but it worked in a completely different way to what he had been lead to believe from the stories and legends, he asked the genie if he could learn how to use his power. The genie responded no, the last of the Magesmiths has been dead these past five hundred years, none living know the secrets you seek. Disheartened, he turned to Sorn and suggested they leave this place of death. With a whirl the room spun around him, faster and faster until he found himself still once more in the underbrush of an evergreen forest. The genie stood in front of him still, but of Sorn and his horse and belongings there was no sign. Where are they? he demanded of the genie, to which the genie responded with a puzzled look, why, back in Dur'am, you only wished us to leave. Bring me my bird then! I can't, the genie replied sorrowfully, I can only grant a single wish each day, and by tomorrow your bird, horse and the entire city will be buried by another sandstorm for the next fifty years. Raging against this fate that had lost him his companion of over a decade Hilburn banished the genie, who vanished with the admonition he would return if he just spoke his name. Hilburn began to notice a call. Not a call, there was no sound, but it was there, a tug, an instinct. He followed it in lieu of anything better to do, and came to a gap in the trees much like his old glade. In the center of this there was a blue light hovering at about chest height. He reached for it, and as his fingers touched it, the world turned inside out and he found himself standing in the middle of a circus tent with a crowd of others looking as confused as him. A voice echoed through the tent. "You have been chosen to represent the forces of Magic to the multiverse. You will each embark on a series of quests, starting now. Enter a tent." Hilburn now noticed that spread around the outer edge of the ring there now stood a number of tents. He walked over to one and as he entered the doorway furled shut. He sat down. The first test had begun. Story so Far In front of me was a plain wooden desk, rough grained but sturdy. A beautiful deck of Tarot cards sat in the back-right corner, two were dealt face down in front of me. Unsure how to proceed, I looked closely at both, trying to discern a difference but there was nothing, the beautiful vine detailing was identical on each. Rather than make a rash decision, I called the name of the genie under my breath. Within a heartbeat he was before me without having gone through any of the interfering "arriving" a physical creature would have had to deal with. Before he had offered information freely so I asked him, "What would be the most beneficial card to draw?" He confessed ignorance, but offered to go find out for me and proceeded to drift through the fabric of the tent, leaving me sitting there, studying my cuticles. A short time later he reappeared, laughing his head off. "Well I have discovered.. I found the.. I found the answer for you. One of your compatriots discovered it while.. trying to steal the deck of cards!" With a wave of his hand a card flew from the top of the deck and landed face up between the two others, the Wheel of Fortune, right side up. The tent, the table, the ground all faded to nothingness. I drifted in a place between places, everywhere, everyone and everywhen spread before me. A choice is offered to me, a chance to go to any place in time and space. There is no question in my mind, I speak aloud into the void, "Take me to the great crafters of history, Hephaestus, the crippled forge-god of Olympus, Azazael, smithmaster of the forces of heaven, the dwarves of Svartalfheim, crafters of Nordic legend and the Master Smith Weyland." In my hands a set of ingots appear, each joined by a thin silver chain. On the face of one of the ingots, the name Hephaestus burns in firey letters on the celestial steel. As I cinch the belt around my waist, a portal opens in front of me to the heart of his volcanic lair. Without a second thought, I step through.